


Future Shrouded in Shadow

by lurking_in_the_background



Series: Cautionary Tales from the Shoppe of Wonders [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Additional Tags to Be Added, Blood, M/M, Other, idk how this will turn out, painting as a medium for telling the future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:34:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21671533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurking_in_the_background/pseuds/lurking_in_the_background
Summary: Lewis Williams knows the supernatural and the fantastical exist. He knows there is magic in the world. And he wants to use it. For several years, he has been searching for a real, true prophet, who can truly see the future, and not some hoax who tells him what he wants.When he finds a little shop that positively screams ‘magic’, he is delighted to learn that the shop employs an honest-to-gods psychic, who will *reluctantly* read his future. Though he may not like what he sees...In the Shoppe of Wonders, you ought to be careful what you wish for....Or you’ll wind up a cautionary tale.
Series: Cautionary Tales from the Shoppe of Wonders [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1557727





	1. Painting a picture of the future

**Author's Note:**

> Please be aware, I really AM making this story up as I go, and I may not have included some tags simply because it was not how I expected my story to go. I apologize in advance.

Lewis Williams was ecstatic: finally, he had found a real psychic, who really could read the future! The woman across from him wasn’t dressed like any of the previous hoaxes, in jeans, a green tee, and combat boots. She read a set of tarot cards on the table, frowning in concentration. “Well?” Lewis demanded excitedly, barely able to keep still. “What do you see?”

”I see... great fortune coming to you,” she began, running a finger across one of the cards. “It appears that you will get a promotion, or a raise at work,” she continued, and Lewis leaned closer. ‘So far so good...’ he thought. “Your wife will be pleased with the new wealth that come to you,” she finished, leaning back.

Lewis sighed. “You’re a hoax too.”

The woman glared at him angrily. “Excuse me?!”

”I don’t have a wife,” Lewis explained coldly. “I’m gay.”

Watching the woman open and close her mouth like a fish on land was almost funny enough to let her keep his money.

Almost.

*  
Lewis left the woman’s shop and sighed as he climbed into his car. Exhaustion weighed heavily on his brain, like a great boulder determined to squish it into pulp. He’d been at this for years, and all he’d found were hoaxes claiming to have the Sight. He knew most people didn’t believe in the supernatural, or the fantastical, or even the magical. They thought he was crazy.

Lewis knew otherwise.

When he was younger, he’d seen a woman come out of a tree, straight at him, from the very bark of the trunk. As he’d watched, she’d appeared, she had smiled at him and pressed a grey brown finger to her grey lips, like that of the bark of the tree she’d just come from. He had nodded, unable to think of anything else to say or do. Then, she had disappeared, like she’d never even been there.

No one had believed him. And soon, Lewis stopped talking about it. But he never forgot, and he began to search for other things like the tree lady.

That was how he had arrived at fortune tellers: those with the Sight tended to know where the faeries were. And he was certain he had found each and every one of them and had them read his fortune.

All of them had been fakes.

Lewis sighed. He had begun to lose hope that he would ever find anything that even remotely resembled a faerie. ‘Maybe they’re right,’ he thought dismally, failure joining exhaustion on the crushing of his brain. ‘Maybe I fell asleep and dreamed her up.’ He pulled out and began to drive towards home.

On the way there, he saw it: not much more than a glimpse, but enough that he had to pull over to investigate. It looked like a shop that catered to the mystical, with a charming outside that said ‘Old World’. He thought he’d been everywhere like this, but he could not remember this little store. ‘It’s probably a hoax, Lewis,’ he told himself firmly. ‘Just like all the others.’

But he found himself curious in spite of himself. So, against his better wishes, he went inside.

It was more modern inside, but only visible in the shiny black mannequins and busts laden with jewelry, weapons, and cloaks, and in the vintage brass cash register on the glass display case at the back. Everything else was a fairytale with a nice rustic twist: fanciful curlicues in black wrought iron. The left wall lined with tall old wooden bookshelves, stuffed with all manner of mystical items. The jewelry and cloaks draped on the mannequins and busts. The weapons on their hips and under the display case. The warm yellows, oranges, and browns that filled the room with a nice toasty feeling. Even the black wrought iron staircase that descended into the floor to the right.

”Can I help you?” came a bored sigh. Lewis stared at the young man leaning on the staircase railing. The thing that dragged his attention first was the horrific looking brand scar on his left cheek; it looked old, by the way the raised scars looked like pale ridges crawling on his face. It horrified him and excited him at the same time.

When he tore his eyes from the scar, he discovered that the rest of him was equally exciting to look at. 

The man had skin like copper that seemed to glow like hot metal cooling from the forge, like magic barely contained by flesh. His hair was dyed white with gold streaks, with the occasional streak of other random colors, from blues and greens to reds and yellows. Lewis wondered if that bit was intentional; he didn’t think so, as there were matching streaks on his head and hands.

The young man’s eyes were like pools of the finest cognac in the sun, piercing with their gaze. He had the fine features of the Middle East; a strong nose and high cheekbones.

His right arm was covered by a sleeve of roiling flames tattooed onto his flesh, made more alive by his skin tone. Lewis imagined the man had more in other places.

”Well?” the man sighed. “Are you done gawking?” Lewis flushed, realizing he’d been staring. “I-I was just wondering if you had anyone here who did readings? L-like fortune telling?” He smiled weakly.

The man’s face clouded. “Yeah...I do.” Lewis lit up. “And you’re not a fraud?”

Rolling his eyes, the man sighed, “Would you believe me if I said no?” Lewis had to agree. “I suppose not.” The man came forward off the railing. “My name is Andel.” “Lewis,” Lewis replied, sticking out his hand. Andel didn’t take it.

“So, what do you do? You know, to tell the future?” Lewis edged toward him. Andel looked him dead in the eye and said, “I paint.” Blinking, Lewis took a minute to process this. “You-“

”Look, I have your name, and the painting will be done in a week. Pay me then.” Andel went behind the counter, took Lewis’s wrist, and drew a symbol on the inside.

A sharp pain flared, and the brand on Andel’s face was burned into his skin.

”Now come back in a week. That’s just a symbol of our deal,” he let go of Lewis’s wrist upon seeing his incredulous stare. “It’ll do away once you pay me for reading your future.”

”It’s magic,” Lewis whispered. “You’re all faeries!” He barely noticed when he left or the drive home. All he could think was, ‘I’m not crazy! There really are faeries!’


	2. Creating a Scene of the Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lewis picks up his painting, and is upset with what it shows him.

His wrist was still sore. The symbol was white, etched onto his pinker skin. But it burned, still, even now, a week later, as he drove back out, to that magical little store, excited to pick up his painting from the prophet. Finally, he would know his own future.

When he walked in, Andel looked tired beyond belief, like he had not slept that entire week he had been painting. The painting was covered by brown paper wrappings, and tied up with twine. Lewis was confused, at first, because the package looked too tall to contain one canvas painting. It looked big enough to contain two or three.

"You, apparently, have an...interesting future," Andel sighed, rubbing his eyes. "The Fates wouldn't let me paint just one, and for that I am increasing the price." He tapped the package tiredly. "Didn't get a lick of sleep since you came in the first time-thanks for that, by the way-and instead managed to create three canvases, with those sleepless nights." He gestured inarticulately.

"How much do I owe you?" Lewis asked, pulling out his wallet. "Look, we don't take human money," Andel sighed, "we take....other sorts of payment." Lewis looked at him uncertainly. "....What do you want?" Andel held up a finger, and yelled, "NARITIC!"

A loud yelp, followed by the sound of falling items, and a loud _thump_ preceded the appearance of a little red-headed faerie. He had big black eyes that pierced Lewis's very soul, and his long crimson hair was braided back from his face. He had pointed ears that swept away from his face. Lewis thought he was very cute, like a little puppy. "Do you need anything?" Andel called. The little red-headed elf skittered over to him, stiffening slightly when he got near Lewis before continuing over to Andel and burying his face into Andel's chest.

"I n-need some m-more O-...." he murmured, his voice muffled by Andel's chest. Lewis frowned. _What does that mean?_ he wondered. "Is that it?" Andel replied, petting that crimson hair.

"Y-yes..."

Andel looked up a Lewis. "What's your blood type?" he demanded, and the meaning of the tiny red-headed elf's words finally sunk in.

"O..." Lewis swallowed. "O-..." "Well, you're in luck," Andel told him. "You give me a pint of O- for your payment. I'll consider your debt paid." Lewis froze. 

"How...how will you do that?" he whispered, terrified. He was leery of needles, and the typical way faeries extracted a blood debt was with a knife. Lewis was not keen on that idea. Andel simply grinned. "That bit's easy," he assured him. "Naritic has his own special methods of extracting blood." Lewis recoiled from the suddenly not-so-cute Naritic. "Is he a vampire?!"

"V-vampire?!" Naritic squeaked, clutching at Andel's chest. "Where?!" Andel rolled his eyes, sighing, and stroked Naritic's blood red hair. "Obviously, he's not a vampire. Those don't exist; they're entirely the work of terrified humans trying to explain the feedings of a blood elf," he explained, mildly annoyed. "We watched 'Dracula' the other night. Now he's convinced Dracula is going to come through the window and kill us all." Lewis laughed nervously. "Then, how does he...ah...?" Andel tilted his head. "Blood elves have their own methods," he said by way of answer. 

Andel pulled out a pocket knife, grabbed Lewis's wrist, flicked it open, and cut a slash down his forearm. Lewis yelped in surprise, though not much pain; the cut wasn't all that deep, and didn't really hurt. "You-!" His attention snapped to Naritic, who had started to inch forward, hesitant. "I-it's okay," he murmured, like he was trying to calm a frightened animal. "It's like giving b-blood. I w-won't take more than a pint..." Lewis recoiled, only to slam into Andel's chest, and felt an iron grip descend on him; one bronzed hand holding Lewis's bloodied arm out, the other pinning him to his chest. "The more you struggle, the worse it gets," Andel muttered in his ear. Lewis tried to stop struggling, but the moment Naritic's tiny, freezing hands touched his skin, some long-forgotten instinct awoke, like that of a rabbit feeling the jaws of a wolf at its heels, and he bucked and struggled for all he was worth. Naritic dipped the end of his bloody-crimson braid in the open cut, and Lewis suddenly had the horrible realization that the braid's color was no coincidence as the braid absorbed the blood that bubbled to the surface. Then, it inched deeper in the cut.

His arm erupted in agony, and a scream tore itself from his throat. It was as if every little hair on the end of that braid was digging into his bleeding flesh in its own little tunnel of agony.

Dimly he heard Naritic cry, "I d-don't w-want to hurt him!" and Andel yelling for somebody named Kryos. Lewis felt Andel's grip loosen slightly, and it was enough. He tore himself from Andel's grasp, grabbed the packages, and bolted. The store instantly felt darker, and it felt like the door was stretching away from him. Despite the blood and pain in his arm, he pushed on, fueled by sheer terror. The moment his hand connected with the door, he threw it open, climbed in his car, and drove off. He didn't stop until he reached his house, until he fumbled the key into the lock, until he had gotten inside, thrown the door shut and locked it tight, and reached his own room. 

Only then did he feel the adrenaline rush die down, and he opened the packages carefully, taking them out one by one. 

The first one was him fleeing the store. Lewis shivered, feeling that old terror creeping back in.

The second was all in greys, and it appeared to be his bedroom. He frowned, seeing himself curled on the bed, huddled in blankets, a look of abject terror on his face. Lewis looked so small in that painting, so forlorn. So utterly alone.

The third one chilled him to the bone: he was laying in what looked like a back alley, in a pool of blood, rain painted spattering on the concrete. He wearing pajamas, and the coat he had been wearing today. He could swear he could hear the rain pattering on the hard ground. He could hear his own labored breathing as his blood slowly drained from his body. Could hear his heartbeat slowing....slowing.....

With a shriek, he flung the paintings from him in terror. Andel had painted Lewis's death. 

Lewis retreated into his blankets as thunder rolled outside. In the greying light, he felt small and alone. In the fading light, raindrops began to strike his window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oopsies.... this poor shut-in has perhaps done a bad thing....


	3. Future comes to Pass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final painting comes to pass...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my amazing friend who speaks Russian, amongst many other languages! You are a freaking lifesaver!

Lewis sat on his bed, huddled in his blankets, for several more hours before hunger finally lured him from his bedroom and the relative safety of his blankets.

The paintings were shoved under his bed, where they couldn’t be seen, and thus not come to pass.

Or, at least, he hoped so.

In the kitchen, he scavenged some food from the fridge; so his dinner consisted of half a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream and some leftover Chinese takeout. He fled back to his room, where his blankets called out to him in warm, safe, and decidedly imaginary voices.

Once he was safely enshrouded in warm fluffy blankets and his stomach was full of food, he finally thought about he was going to get out of this. He had stolen from the Fair Folk. The stories where people stole from the faeries never ended well for the thief.

Lewis wondered if that was what the final painting was of: the faeries collecting on their debt. It was a terrifying thought, because that meant he had been fated to steal the paintings, and Andel had known it the entire time.

He shook himself. Worrying wasn’t going to help him. Lewis needed sleep. He pulled on a random pair of pajamas, brushed his teeth, and was just about to get into bed, when he heard it.

A soft, cooing warble, like some exotic bird. It was so soft, he thought he’d imagined it.

Then it came again, but this time closer.

Lewis felt terror building in his chest, his heart hammering behind his ribs; he couldn’t get enough air in his lungs.

 _They were here_.

Lewis grabbed his coat and bolted. He ran out the side door, and over his fence, before getting in his car and starting it. As he began to pull out, something dropped from the tree above him, and landed on his windshield. He screamed and pulled out, reversing and slamming the brakes. The thing dropped from his windshield, rolled a bit, before getting back up. His lights glinted off a white tail before he started driving, hoping to hit whatever it was.

As he was about to hit it, something flew out and knocked the thing out of the way, and he drove right by. Lewis did not look back.

*  
He was finally in the city; it was the one place faeries couldn’t go, because of all the iron. Relief washed over him, and he began to relax.

Then he saw a red braid, and bronzed skin decorated with tattoos. Lewis slammed on the brakes, and was rear ended by the guy behind him. The crash made him lose sight of them, and he jumped out and ran down a nearby alleyway, much to the annoyance of the other driver.

Lewis didn’t stop until he heard the warble again. Then, he froze dead in his tracks.

It was his undoing.

Something slammed into him from behind and he went sprawling on the dirty concrete.

“Nice of you to pick a quiet alley,” came a soft, lilting voice, with the barest hint of an accent. It sounded Russian, to his ears. Lewis flipped over, and looked up.

His attacker was small, under average height, and had thick white curls that framed a youthful face of angles and porcelain skin. Long pointed ears flared away from his face, and he wore a thick bottle green sweater over khaki slacks. A coat several sizes too big and lined with fur topped it off. Glowing phosphorescent green eyes with slit reptilian pupils stared down at Lewis. A scaled white tail swished back and forth on the ground behind him.

It was the thing he’d tried to run over earlier.

Behind the strange creature was another white-haired faerie, but he was much taller, his eyes were palest blue, and his thick hair stuck up in all directions aside from a tiny, thin braid that fell down his back. He didn’t have a tail either.

“It does make this far less messy if there are no witnesses,” the smaller faerie continued, gesturing to the alley behind him. Someone grabbed Lewis by the armpits and hauled him up so he was on his knees. He recognized those slim, delicate fingers holding him. _Naritic_ , he realized in dawning horror.

“Now, if I recall correctly, you owed Andel some blood for those paintings,” the faerie said, squatting down in front of him. “We’re going to collect on that.” Faster than Lewis could follow, he was grabbed by the chin and was forced to stare into those terrifying green eyes. “With interest.”

Lewis cried out as something stabbed him in the back, and screamed when the same sensation of a hundred thousand needles poking the wound and the feeling of his blood being siphoned away enveloped him like it did in the store. He wriggled desperately, trying to get away.

“тишина, этот поросячий визг,” the other white-haired faerie snarled in Russian, and the smaller one simply nuzzled his shoulder placatingly. “мир, мой друг, он остановится в ближайшее время,” he murmured back. 

Lewis could feel it. He was dying; Naritic was draining every drop of blood in his body. He supposed this was interest on his debt. Finally he was released, and he was gasping, trying to breathe, but he couldn’t; his heart wasn’t beating, there was no blood for it to pump; oh God was he dying no no no he couldn’t he had so much to do no he didn’t want to die....!

Rain began to fall, slowly sliding down bloodless and sunken eyes and cheeks, uncaring of the scene below.

*  
Kryos stared at the slowly cooling corpse at their feet. Naritic’s little pink tongue probed the wound for any trace of blood, his hair already a shade or two darker and about an inch longer from this feeding.

“Alright, Naritic,” he said finally, “that’s enough for you. Time to go home.” The blood elf merely mewled at him and buried his nose in the gaping hole in the mortal’s back to get his tongue closer to and drops he may have missed.

Sighing, he gestured, and Zandstri gently but firmly removed Naritic from the corpse. The little blood elf whined sadly and struggled to get back to it, but Zandstri held him tightly by the waist. Finally, his struggles subsided, and he let Zandstri pull him away. Kryos gave the little thing a fond pat on the head, and gave him a little reassuring smile too before saying:

“I’m sure Andel has something nice for you to eat waiting at home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> тишина, этот поросячий визг- “silence that piggy squeal “
> 
> мир, мой друг, он остановится в ближайшее время- “peace, my friend, he will stop soon.”


	4. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened after...

That night, someone heard Lewis’s screams. They called the police, just in case he was actually in trouble, not just really drunk.

The police arrived minutes later, and found the body. No one could remember seeing anything, aside from one irate truck driver who identified him as the guy he’d rear ended, who had then run off.

It had begun raining, and the police considered this when they noted the conspicuous lack of blood. They found no traces of blood anywhere, which would normally have indicated a body dump, but the man wore a coat and shoes, and someone had heard him screaming before he was killed, and sighted him running in moments before _that_. Which meant he had to have been killed in the alleyway.

The MEs were baffled as well: the body had no blood. It had been completely drained through a tiny, narrow stab wound, though various veins, capillaries, and arteries had been pierced by what looked like something smaller than a pin tip.

There was no way the man had died in the alley, they argued, because the amount of time for a body to drain itself of blood through that tiny a wound was impossible.

A set of paintings portraying the man (now identified as 24-year-old Lewis Williams) stealing a set of paintings and winding up dead in the same alleyway he was discovered in made the people uncomfortable, to say the least. The fact that they were dated at least 2 days earlier than the murder didn’t help.

The owner of the shop in the paintings did admit that those particular ones had been stolen earlier in day Lewis Williams was murdered, but he and his employees had valid alibis; they were at a gallery opening in honor of the artist who had painted the paintings, and numerous witnesses placed them there the whole night.

The killer became known as “The Bloody Prophet”, and was relatively inactive for more than 3 months, before another body turned up. It was stabbed the same way, and drained of blood, and the vessels around the wound were riddled with tiny microscopic holes. This time, there was a painting that had been hanging in the gallery; the painting of Lewis Williams’ horrible bloody death. It had been stolen earlier that day.

The FBI were stumped; there was no trace of the killer other than the body, but the killer had struck _right there_.

Eventually, Lewis Williams and his infamous portrait became an urban legend, even though the Bloody Prophet killed again from time to time.

*  
There was, in fact, a tasty snack waiting for Naritic when he got home. Upset his little friend had not gotten any of his favorite snack, Andel had gone out and somehow managed to track down a pint of O-. Much to Naritic’s delight, even though he was completely full from his earlier meal.


End file.
